


A Lover in Exile

by FloraTheWriter



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Coping, Emotional Hurt, Established Relationship, Heartbreak, Heavy Angst, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Marriage, Pining, Post-Divorce, Separations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:07:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25515502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FloraTheWriter/pseuds/FloraTheWriter
Summary: He was homeless. Loveless. A lover in exile.
Relationships: Bang Chan/Hwang Hyunjin, Bang Chan/Lee Minho | Lee Know
Comments: 14
Kudos: 50





	A Lover in Exile

**Author's Note:**

> I heard Taylor Swift's 'exile' and this just came to mind. Just a drabble but I hope you like it 💕

Nothing could have prepared Minho for this moment. It split a new crack down his already splintered heart, seeing eight years of memories stuffed into boxes and carried out by the arms that used to hold him at night. He pressed his lips together, his jaw trembling with the amount of effort it took not to call out to him, to throw down that white flag in surrender, to concede that this was all a mistake. It should never have ended like this, should never have ended at all, should never have slipped past the point where the words ‘we can work it out’ had ceased being a lifeline and had become a thorn in his side. 

He stood uselessly in the hallway, hands hanging at his sides. He closed his eyes and sucked in air through his teeth, trying to hold back his tears, hoping with a fool’s hope that the burn behind his eyelids was due to his lack of sleep and not the barrage of tears waiting to fall and embarrass him. He opened his eyes and stared at a cloud of dust particles suspended in the air, glittering like gold in the sunlight streaming in through the screen-door. 

Dust. That reminded him… He glanced at the bare walls. They’d taken down all the framed photographs, a collection of memories; those big moments like their wedding, anniversaries, birthdays, and smaller moments – just a picnic at the beach, sitting on the couch, cooking dinner. Big or small, they’d all been significant because it was them, and they’d been together and they’d been in love. They’d discarded the frames this morning, and Chan told Minho that he could keep the photographs. Minho had shoved them in drawer he wouldn’t be opening any time soon. They could collect dust, just as the memories they held were covered in a thick layer of dust because they hadn’t been revisited in a long, long time. 

He didn’t raise his gaze to see the boxes stacked in the back of the truck, nor did he look up when he heard heavy footsteps descending the staircase. But when he registered the slowing of the footsteps and the silhouette hovering in his periphery, he forced his eyes upward.

“So that’s it,” Chan said, his arms wrapped around the last box. He cocked his head to the side as if he was waiting for Minho to say something.

And Minho tried. A simple “okay” or “sure” would’ve done the trick and he opened his mouth trying to say  _ something _ , but only managed a lazy jerk of his shoulders. Chan didn’t press him for more. He never did. And that was the problem, wasn’t it? He was always happy enough to just leave things be, to take it for granted that Minho was actually fine when he said he was fine, to assume Minho was fine even if he didn’t say he was fine, to think that Minho couldn’t be more than just… fine. 

When had he stopped trying to make Minho happy? When had “let’s go to that place you like” turned into “let’s just go to sleep”? When had “I’ll take you out to dinner” turned into “don’t wait up for me”? When had “I saw this and thought you might like it” turned into “just take my card and buy whatever you want”? 

When had things escalated from “I got you flowers” to “you expect too much from me”, from “let’s talk through this” to “I don’t have the time for this anymore”, from “we all make mistakes” to “I’m done with you”?

Not wanting Chan to see the tears that had formed in his eyes, Minho turned his head. But maybe he shouldn’t have. Because of course,  _ he _ was standing outside Chan’s truck. Minho heard about it from their friends, but had yet to see the man for himself until today. It was like they said he was – young, handsome, pretty blonde hair, dressed in formal slacks and a blazer, professional… Everything Minho wasn’t. But Minho wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of knowing that.

From outside on the sidewalk the blonde’s lips twitched into a condescending smile like he  _ knew _ Minho had never been good enough for Chan. But Minho lifted his chin, his jaw clenched, his fingers balled into fists and shoved into the pockets of his hoodie to stop them from trembling. He could only hope that he looked unaffected. 

“Goodbye, Minho.”

He almost –  _ almost _ – reached out for Chan as he stepped out onto the porch, every step that took him further away echoing Chan’s goodbye. He watched as Chan placed the final box in the back of his truck and – and walked into the waiting arms of that blonde. The blonde whispered something in Chan’s ear, and Chan responded with a laugh. Minho’s chest constricted and a wave of coldness stole through him, freezing every emotion that threatened to send him crashing to floor. 

He slammed the door, pressing his back against it, his eyes screwed shut, burning with – he couldn’t deny it any longer – unshed tears. And he wasn’t going to cry. Not because of that. Not because of them. He wasn’t going to cry. Weighted down by the tumult of every emotion he was holding back, he let a wave of numbness wash over him. The detachment would’ve felt like a relief, except Minho couldn’t feel anything anymore, not even relief. 

He was so numb to it all that he almost failed to hear the knocking. And that was enough to snap him out of the daze that he’d welcomed a few moments ago. Could it be…? Had he come back? Minho didn’t dare hope… With a trembling hand, he opened the door. 

Chan. He came back. He came back! 

“I uh…” Chan scratched the back of his head. “I – I left something…” he gestured vaguely. 

Oh. Oh… Minho stepped aside, feeling worse than he did before. Chan bounded down the hallway and upstairs, taking a few minutes before he came down again. He didn’t look at Minho as he left, even as Minho inwardly screamed,  _ Look at me, Chan! See me! _ Because somewhere along the line, Chan had started seeing him as  _ a _ person, and not as  _ his _ person. 

“I’m still your person,” Minho whispered to the retreating figure too far away to hear. Too far away now. So Minho turned his back on him. What else was he supposed to do?

Every step on the staircase felt like climbing a mountain and when he finally got there – to their— 

His eyes widened. This wasn’t  _ their _ bedroom anymore. There wasn’t a ‘ _ them’ _ anymore. And he had to remind himself that there hadn't been a ‘them’ since long before they signed the papers.

He lay down on the bed, and why did it feel so much bigger? Too big. To be fair, they hadn’t slept in the same bed for nearly two months, and had stopped living under the same roof a month ago. But it hadn’t felt like this until now, until it was set in stone that Chan was never going to lie beside him again. He stretched his hand over the empty space, the cotton sheet as cold as the hollowed space Chan had left inside Minho. 

With his eyes closed, he ran his fingers down the empty expanse, recalling what it was like to run his fingers over Chan’s body, to make love to Chan, to wrap himself around Chan at night, pressing himself as close as possible, so close that sometimes he could feel Chan’s heart beat against his chest.

He choked out a sob, pressing a hand against his mouth to stifle the sound. But… But there was no one there to hear him anyway. He was alone. 

Alone.

It was this realization that drew out from the bottom of his chest, a gut-wrenching cry that echoed off the walls. He pulled his knees to his chest, curled up on his side and began to wail, the grief of a dead relationship now untethered. 

***

A while ago, if you asked Chan where home was, he would’ve said that it could be anywhere as long as Minho was beside him. But that wasn’t true, he realized. Two people living in the same space didn’t make it a home. It took more than that. They needed a connection, a shared vision. And they’d had that once – when they’d just finished college, when they’d just moved in together, when they got engaged, when they got married. But somewhere along the way, that connection had started to waver, a warning that they both kept ignoring. When did that connection start to fade? When did that vision begin to blur? He couldn’t remember. 

Chan turned on the spot, surveying the remnants of what remained of his relationship with Minho. It was like standing inside a giant box of old things, of memories too precious to throw away. Everywhere he looked he could see the shadow of that happy couple that had once occupied this space, that couple who had been so madly in love they were willing to overlook every flaw in each other, willing to spend forever with each other. A couple who had believed in forever. They’d been naïve thinking that marriage was the be all and end all, that marriage was the result of a successful relationship and that just being married would ensure the survival of their relationship.

Chan had a cardboard box in his arms. It was the last one. There wasn’t anything important in it. There wasn’t anything important in the other boxes either. But he’d kept up that façade of packing, all the while hoping Minho would stop him. 

But Minho didn’t care enough to stop him. He didn’t care enough to fight for this relationship. He didn’t care enough. He didn’t care. And it made Chan so, so angry. Eight years all just – just up in flames because Minho decided that they couldn’t work things out, that there was nothing left. Those were his words. 

_ There’s nothing left, Chan. _

But if there was nothing left, why did Chan feel this ache in his chest? It was like his chest had been ripped open, his heart torn out and trampled on, and yet it still worked, stuttering and broken, but it worked and it waited… for Minho. But Chan knew Minho, knew that once he’d made up his mind about something, there was no going back. 

And Minho had decided that Chan wasn’t good enough anymore, that Chan was never good enough, that he hadn’t put enough effort into their relationship. But if Minho just opened his eyes, he would’ve seen that there was only so much a person could give, only so many dates Chan could plan, only so many gifts Chan could give him, only so much he could do before he got tired of being the only one who was  _ doing _ things. He’d tried convincing himself that Minho was just different, that he showed his love in more subtle ways. But Chan always craved more than a cup of tea, more than an umbrella on a rainy day, more than a text during his lunch break. And then Chan decided that if Minho wasn’t going to put in any effort, he wasn’t going to either.

He wasn’t being childish, or vindictive. He’d just kept on giving, giving, giving until all that remained was the ounce of life that kept him going; if he gave that up too, he would have ended up giving up on his relationship as well as himself. And he could only afford to lose one of those things. 

He set down the box and sat at the edge of the bed. He couldn’t go down there. Didn’t want to. Didn’t want to say goodbye. He rubbed a hand over his chest, fingers clenching the fabric as if that would alleviate the ache. It was ironic – being there only made his heart ache, but leaving was only going to make it worse. A double-edged sword. 

He stood on the landing, looking down at Minho. The man stared into space, thinking about – who knows what Minho thought about? There was a time Chan had begged –  _ begged _ for Minho to tell him what was on his mind, what was wrong, so that they could fix this, make it better. But Minho had just shaken his head and given him that condescending look, like Chan should have already somehow known what was wrong. But he couldn’t read minds and that was something Minho seemed to forget.

He approached Minho hesitantly, all too aware of the frigidity of his posture, that don’t-come-near-me stance. Chan couldn’t accept that this was how their goodbye would be. But Minho wouldn’t even spare Chan a glance, like he just couldn’t be bothered, like Chan was the one who hadn’t tried, like he deserved to be punished.

“So that’s it,” Chan tried to reel in his anger, waiting for Minho to say something, to acknowledge him, to acknowledge the end of their relationship. But Minho just fixed his cold gaze on him and gave a non-committal shrug. Apparently Chan wasn’t even worth a few words. It was debatable whether Minho had even heard him or whether he just didn’t feel like responding. 

He followed Minho’s gaze, aware that he was sizing up Hyunjin. His fingers were balled into fists, a muscle feathering in his jaw as if he was angry. Did he even have a right to be angry at Hyunjin for being there? Chan didn’t think so. 

“Goodbye, Minho,” he managed.

He tried to school his features into nonchalance as he finished loading the box into the back of his truck, and smiled when he saw Hyunjin waiting for him with open arms.

“I thought you were going to pack up the whole house at one point,” Hyunjin teased. “Took you long enough.” Chan forced a laugh. It was all he could do to hold back his tears.

He jumped into the truck, but couldn’t bring himself to turn the key in the ignition. “Fuck…” he murmured, slumping forward. He couldn’t do this.

“Chan?” Hyunjin’s voice was laced with concern. He placed a hand on Chan’s knee. “What can I do?”

When Chan looked at him, there was a look of resignation on Hyunjin’s face. Of course he knew that Chan still loved Minho. He also knew that he would never be what Minho was to Chan. And that was something Chan was forthcoming about when they first started this – this thing a month ago. Being separated from Minho had been… difficult. A change that Chan hadn’t been ready to deal with. Hyunjin had alleviated the stress from that transition. That’s all this was and Hyunjin knew it. 

So he didn’t feel bad when he told Hyunjin, “I need to talk to Minho.” He needed to give him one more chance.

He knocked on the door, about to turn away when it was wrenched open. Minho stared at him, and Chan tried to gauge the expression on his face. Surprise? Irritation? “I uh…” he scratched the back of his head, hoping Minho would interject. But this wasn’t some romcom where it all worked out in the end; Minho just stood there, waiting. “I – I left something,” he lied and pressed past Minho. 

He headed upstairs aimlessly, ending up in their – no,  _ Minho’s _ – bedroom. He perched on the window seat and waited for a minute, and then two more, hoping Minho would come to him, would tell him that this was all a mistake. And when he realized that Minho wasn’t coming up, Chan had to press his palms against his eyes to physically hold back the tears. His palms came away moist, and a quick glance in the mirror told him that one look would be enough for Minho to see that he’d been crying. 

So he didn’t look at Minho on his way out. And Minho didn’t stop him.

“You sure you don’t want me to come in with you? Give you some company?” Hyunjin asked, unlocking his apartment, just next door to Chan’s.

Chan gave a subtle shake of the head. He just wanted to be alone. No, he wanted to be with Minho. But that wasn’t going to happen.

He lay down on the single bed, just big enough for him, and stared up at the ceiling, tears slipping down the sides of his face, dampening his pillow. This would never be home. He didn’t have a home anymore. He was homeless.

Homeless. Loveless. A lover in exile. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading 💞💞💞💞💞💞💞  
> Twt: flora_stays


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